The Clifton clarion., 1887-11-02
SolomonviIIe at Court Time.

vile at court time you would have thought it was again those old times we love to talk about, and see old-timers as they poured Tn, some on raw-boned mustangs. some on stages. They are men of mark in their respective precincts, men of influence. They are sun burned and raw-boned some are men who have stood kneedeep in the mud of the golden alluvial es it was being sluiced away. They are men with hands hard and horny with stomachs indurated to bull beef, bacon and fapjacks i; pocket-hunters, burrowers in Cor onado mountain, travellers of dead river beds delving in gravel eternity buried.
 This gray shirted, humble panted man is Ignacio Campbell, ever sanguine of untold treasure in Gold Gulch- ever sanguine also as Democrat. Here arc J. B. Bessner, who stakes his chances on the Gila range ; Hickey from the Blue, G. w. Wells from Gro, Chapman, relating his experiences in Colorado men from Camp Granville's rock-bound crevices- packers of their own flour and bacon for miles over rocky tralls from tho store to their cabins 1; hermits secluded in deep-gulch recesses men never discouraged because their claims did not pay this year. but resolved to tackle the same old claim the next-the same old claim which has claimed their muscle, their money, their credit and the next weeks work may bring forth - well, who knows?" Meeting these are men of the plains-dwellers near the choice county line, cattle-men, riata-slingers, bucking mustang masters-men more sun-browned than the mountain men dusty m en wlthal, and hangers of cattle thieves.
 They have dinero in their pock- cts, they have orc in their buck skins; they have left their ranches, their casas, their ramadas. They speak the English trimmed with Spanish, with Spanish learned from senors-and senoritas, of course. These men can tell the time of day by the sun. By their cabin side are piles of bottles bottles once full, now empty; bottles out of which long ago fled the spirit, yet giving still their silent testimony of high old times
 How these old-timers enjoy their meals at the Restaurant Detroit or the Gila Hotel How great to them the privilege and luxury of eating grub" they have not to cook themselves-a meal unbur- dened of the previous wood chop ping, fire kindling, bread-making labor attendant on their humble meals at home-every one pre- pared by themselves. How glori- ous to rise at morn from a bed of clean white sheets rather than the old blue blankets; to wash from a white basin rather than the old tin one, a la cabin; to see ones self in a two-foot mirror rather than the window pane refec tor at home; and then, after consulting Morgan's barometer, naught to do save wait for the jingle of the triangle and partake of one of Mrs. Neese's old-fashioned break lasts not prepared by Chinese.
 At the saloon, the cradle of Democratic liberty in Solomon vile, the spirit of regeneration has struck Bert Frye. Mirrors and pictures are furnished and elegant cut-glass ware is on the bar. Before the bar are men of mark and men of mlnd-lawyers, doctors, judges, gentlemen. This is Ben Crawford, once of Mary land and often Sheriff of Graham. This is Dan Ming of Aravaipa, ever aspiring to christen the new county of Miles, and never getting the chance. This person towering near the skies is Judge Bolan, a strong pillar in the Democratic church. This is H. A. Gould, mining superintendent, who knows just how to lay out work to the best advantage and when it is well done. At the table sits $. A. Miller of Pima, who can give you points on horsehesh. In the in- ner room sits G. H. Stevens, who never was not Democrat and rarely without an office. With